For months, I watched her walk around my living room like a zombie, unsure of how to start over at age forty-three. So, I did something. I took the forty-five thousand dollars I had saved from thirty years of working as an accountant—my retirement money—and bought her a refuge.

I found a small farm property on the outskirts of Atlanta. Two acres of land with fruit trees, a three-bedroom house, and a spacious kitchen. It cost fifty-two thousand dollars, so I had to take out a loan, but I didn’t care.